


Crushed by their own Mundanity

by snarkmcsnark



Category: Mayans M.C. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Family, Missing Scene, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Post-Divorce, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 17:44:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16623548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkmcsnark/pseuds/snarkmcsnark
Summary: "I have no doubt that what happened with you and Ezekiel Reyes was devastating. But you were young, resilient, so smart. Was it just a cosmic “fuck you” to the silly pale people being crushed by their own mundanity? I understand that. I really do. Needing something bigger, bolder, more dangerous.""Or I fell in love."





	Crushed by their own Mundanity

The house is so still when you enter; it’s as if no one’s lived here for years. But everything is immaculate — not a speck of dust on any surface, not a throw pillow out of place, not a pair of red Vans left haphazardly by the entrance. Someone lives here. She’s baking shortbread late in the afternoon, the scent of butter and sugar enticing you to the kitchen.

Everything looks the same but more sterile. Devoid of personality. Devoid of any memories that make it feel like home. The fridge isn’t covered with your macaroni art from first grade, your poems from fourth, your A+ essays from ninth, your picture from senior prom when you were just a junior. You hated your dress and you hated the formalities of the dance, but you loved everything else about that night. Then it all came crashing down when you slipped in the morning after — your father’s car missing from the driveway and his work boots unaccounted for on a Saturday.

“Emily, I didn’t hear you come in.” It’s almost like staring into a mirror from ten years ago. Bright blue eyes and brown, almost-auburn hair, set against the palest skin in all of Santo Padre. “You’re just in time, the shortbread is just coming out of the oven. And it should be soft enough for the baby.”

“How are you doing, mom?” You take a seat on the stool on the opposite side of the kitchen island and watch as she takes the baking sheet and sets it down on the cooling rack. She smiles wide, proud of the golden yellow colour of her cookies. “I haven’t heard from you in weeks.”

“You never called.”

Fair point.

“I’m doing fine, honey,” she says as she continues to flit around the kitchen like a 1950s housewife. “I bought this new cookbook online and I’ve been testing out all these recipes. It’s a lot of baked goods for one lady, so I’ve been bringing most of them over to the parishioners at Sacred Heart. They’ve been a hit!”

“That’s great, mom. But, really, how are you doing?”

“I don’t understand,” she says with a dismissive shake of her head. “I’m telling you I’m fine.”

You know better than to pick at old wounds, but you can’t help but be reminded of your mother’s proclivity for baking when she’s in one of her moods. Most husbands would love to come home to a house smelling of Irish apple tart, but your father despised it. It was like a smoke signal to turn around, back to the office and back to the secretary, who looked at him with sultry eyes and made him feel like he was young again.

“I’d be better if my grandson came to visit me more often,” she says in a cloyingly passive-aggressive tone. Removing her oven mitts, she sets her hands on the counter and finally makes eye contact with you. “Where is he? Is he with the nanny?” She glances over to the kitchen window above the sink, where she hopes to see Maria wheeling the stroller.

“What?” You’re caught off-guard. Does she know about the kidnapping? No one outside the cartel and their associates should know about any of it, but has word spread? You clear your throat and try to swallow down the rising panic in your chest. “He’s with Miguel.” It’s not a lie. He really is with Miguel detained at the border for god-knows-what reason — another giant, unexplainable ‘fuck you’ before you can finally be reunited with your son.

She stares you down with suspicion. “You only ever come to visit me with Cristobal. It’s so you don’t feel guilty about him not having a relationship with his maternal grandmother.”

“That’s not true.”

“And when you do visit, it’s what?” She glances at the old clock on the wall. “Half an hour before you have to go back to your mansion on the hill. Wipe your hands clean of the notion that you’re keeping your grandson from me.”

“I’m not keeping him from you. You’ve always been welcome,” you say curtly. “It was your choice never to set foot in my house.”

“No, Emily. It was your choice to marry into that sick family and create a child whose legacy is rooted in greed and violence.”

“Save me the self-righteous bullshit, mom.” You scoff, pushing yourself off the kitchen island. This was a bad idea coming here. You’re not even sure what compelled you to make the trip. Maybe, subconsciously, being apart from your son for so long had you seeking out the comfort of a mother — something you hadn’t really felt from Dita ever since you slowly situated yourself within the cartel’s inner circle. “You don’t know Miguel. You never gave him a chance.”

“I don’t need to know the man to know what his family has done to people on the other side of the border.” She pauses and takes a steadying breath. “Your father and I — we talked about the atrocities that family has committed. You were there with us, listening at the dinner table. You agreed with us. You told us you wanted to be a lawyer so you could help people find asylum in this country, and yet you marry him? What was it, Emily? Was your heart so broken that you wanted to rebel against the world? Become someone you’re not?”

“I fell in love.”

She sighs. “You were angry.”

“I don’t have to justify anything to you, but I know how I felt then and I know what I feel now.”

“You were scared of being alone.”

You pace toward the hallway, and turn on your heel. You don’t mean to raise your voice, especially in one of the quietest streets in town, but your mother has a way of pushing your buttons. “You don’t know a thing! Ever since dad left, you’ve been so addicted to your own misery while putting on this facade that everything’s fine. You know, business as usual, right? That’s what you’ve been doing for at least half your marriage — pretending like you two were happy, like you didn’t resent him for moving the family to this godforsaken desert. Dad’s silence and absence. Your passive aggressive remarks, all the baking and the doting housewife bullshit to hang over his head to make him feel like he was the bad guy. You still think that way, don’t you? You still think it’s all his fault.” You watch as she stares at you with wide eyes, as if she has the audacity to be offended. “Of course you do. You believe only what you want to believe; you don’t have a clue what is and isn’t real.”

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that.”

“Or what?” You challenge back as you storm down the hall, toward the front door. “You’ll kick me out because I’ll stop playing along with your fantasy?”

Your mother leans against the banister, her bottom lip quivering as she attempts to keep her tears from falling. “Is it so wrong to want someone safe and stable for my daughter?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t say yes to the first nice, hard-working man to ask me to marry him.” You open the door and feel the cool, evening breeze. Out on the street, the black SUV is parked and Tiago stands waiting by the passenger side door. When you turn to face your mother, it’s like looking at a mirror of who you were eight years ago — heartbroken, angry, scared of being alone. And you were those things when you met Miguel. But you didn’t say yes when he got down on one knee for those reasons. She’ll never understand no matter how many times you needlessly justify it. “When I was growing up, you and dad showed me what a  _safe and stable_  marriage looked like. You were married, lived under the same roof, yet so distant from each other. Was it for my sake? Or was it because neither of you could admit that you had made a mistake and stopped loving each other so long ago?”

“Why did you come here, Emily?”

“I —” You shake your head. “I don’t know. Clearly, it was a mistake.”

“Maybe you do love him,” she concedes. “But maybe, if he was right for you, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Goodbye, mom.”

Your mother watches at the doorway as you make it back to the car. As soon as you hit the sidewalk, she puts on a cheery voice. “Next time you come over with the baby, let me know beforehand. I want to make him a fresh batch of shortbread.”


End file.
